On the Santa Trail
This Truck-Drivin', Chili-Cookin', South Austin Santa Is the Real Deal
By Jordan Smith, Fri., Dec. 22, 2000
Who would've guessed that Santa drives a white Toyota pickup truck? Or that he is an award-winning chili chef in the off-season? Or that, aside from that North Pole workshop, he's got a little place with Mrs. Claus down in South Austin?
Okay, maybe you could've guessed that last part.
Sure, we've all written the guy a letter or two, arranged a plate of cookies and a glass of milk somewhere we're sure he'll see them, strained our ears -- in an anticipatory haze late at night, tucked into bed -- for signs of his arrival, but what do we really know about the guy?
Really?
In an attempt to get to know the real Santa Claus (what makes the guy tick?), we decided to spend some time with Austin's official 2000 Trail of Lights Santa, during this, his busiest season.
On a chilly, early December afternoon, I caught up with Santa inside a North Austin McDonald's, eating a Salad Shaker -- a plastic cup of chef salad, with a side of ranch dressing, a Diet Coke in his hand. Next to him lay the Santa Bible: a calendar for the month of December.
"I won't say that Santa's always on a diet, but ... Here's the thing: Santa keeps a day job -- Santa always has a day job -- and he prefers to live in Austin," he says.
Santa -- aka Charlie Cudd, aka "Buffalo Chuck" -- consults his calendar, which is a cacophony of red and green stickers, arrows, and underlined times, all vying for attention. On December 8 alone he has four gigs lined up, starting at noon, spread out across Austin. There's a six-hour stint for IBM the following day, then, of course, there's the Trail of Lights, where Santa says he expects to see 3,000 to 5,000 people on a single Sunday. Not to mention the gratis gigs he does at area child care facilities and the RBJ Center.
"People expect a certain thing out of Santa, and that's pretty much what they get," he affirms. "Being able to give hope is a wonderful thing."
Santa: Unplugged
Santa, errr, Cudd, has been living in Austin for most of his adult life with his wife of 25 years, Kathy, errr, Mrs. Claus. They met in Nacogdoches in 1974 where they were both attending Stephen F. Austin State University and studying theatre.
"I was the oldest living freshman," says Cudd. "I was a freshman for seven years. I signed up and went to all of my theatre classes -- got up to my senior-level theatre classes; but never went to my English classes, or history classes, or science classes. They just didn't take."
Instead, he spent all of his time on the stage -- a lot of it alongside Kathy, traveling around doing both regional and dinner theatre before settling down in Austin in 1984.
"I quit doing theatre because Austin ... when I moved here, that scene was real clique-y. And I didn't seem to fit in with any one particular group," he says, wiping away a piece of lettuce that is clinging perilously to his long white beard. "So, I auditioned for everyone, and because I'd auditioned for one, the other one wouldn't hire me, and because I'd auditioned for them, these guys over here wouldn't hire me. So I ended up saying, 'I don't have to do theatre with you people. I can do my own theatre. I am theatre. Theatre of Life!' and Santa Claus is just another outlet."
The 49-year-old Cudd began donning the red velvet suit too many years ago to remember, but finally bought his own in 1991, two years before he discovered his other ongoing passion, chili cooking.
"In 1993 I had a friend who had a show team at Terlingua, where the international chili cook-off championship [is held], and I said I'd come help. I've had a team there every year since," says Cudd. "I cook a lot of chili."
And cooks well, apparently. The shelves in his living room in South Austin are filled with trophies, including two dubbing him World Championship Showman for Terlingua competitions in 1995 and 1996.
But a mean pot of chili isn't the only thing it takes to make a world champion, Cudd asserts. A winning team has got to have a show, and a damn good one at that; complete with costumes, themes, audience appeal, and audience participation.
Certainly all the skills it takes to make a damn good Santa too.
"I've known Charlie ... Santa, for 15 years," says Anne Rix Sifuentez, a studio art supervisor at GSD&M who has booked Cudd's services at the ad giant's holiday parties two years running. "Once you experience a Christmas with Chuck, you'll never forget it. Besides the really great bleach job, he really gets into his characters."
On the Road
Who but ad agency GSD&M would start their annual holiday party at noon on a Friday? That's foresight, especially if those rumors of departmental margarita machines and a closet stash of Coors Light are even half true.
Santa sits on a red bench with a backdrop of dancing candy canes, a thick line of GSD&M-ers eating barbecue and sipping on margaritas and Bloody Mary's billowing out to his right.
While there is always a handful of kids either eagerly pushing toward or bashfully pulling away from his lap, the line of adults waiting to tell Santa their holiday wishes outnumbers kids at least 2-to-1. (Most popular wish at GSD&M? New car.)
"I get a lot more adults in the pictures by asking them, 'When was the last time you talked to Santa Claus?'" Santa says. "They think back and realize how long it's been. Adults need Santa a lot more [than kids] sometimes because ... When was the last time you really got what you wanted for Christmas? Maybe it's because you haven't talked to Santa."
His performance is flawless. He even gets the folks with the best hair to don puffy elf hats. He puts his arms around shoulders and asks the time-honored question, "Have you been good this year?" Answer truthfully, 'cuz Santa knows. He then poses a white-gloved finger in the air across an imaginary list and runs his finger through elusive lines of names until he hits upon the right one.
"It's a thing I do. I always check the names," he says. "I say, 'I know that thing you did in January, March, April ...' With the adults, I usually give five or six dates, because they know they've done things they shouldn't have, and that they should be good at least through the end of the year. But I don't do specifics. Santa doesn't have to do specifics."
In a smile, the Polaroid clicks.
The line to sit with Santa stays thick through midafternoon, and Santa takes a few minutes with everybody, smiling brightly, checking his list -- twice -- and kissing babies on the head.
Toy trains, the Beatles Anthology, saddle bags, scooters, new houses, and cars are all on the list. "I don't bring puppies," Santa insists. "I don't bring puppies or kitties or ponies. If I brought those things down from the North Pole they'd be puppisicles. I just can't bring live animals.
"And no PlayStation 2s," adds Santa. "You know, if you didn't get your order in, if you didn't send your list in by October, chances are you're not getting one. You can put your order in for next year, or you can wait until March and get one at Sears."
GSD&M co-founder Roy Spence asks for Krispy Kreme doughnuts.
"Wait a minute, I've heard about you," Santa says.
"Wait," Spence declares, looking sidelong at Santa. "I think he is Santa!"
Duh.
As the afternoon wears on, Santa is off again, tooling down Austin's streets in his Toyota pickup. His uniform ("It's a uniform, not a costume ...") is tucked away in the back with the other tools of the trade: a big red sack and a Polaroid camera, for when Santa is stopped on the street or in a store between gigs. "The Polaroid is great for the immediate thing, for the walking around so that people can prove that Santa was actually there," he explains.
"It's a happy thing; it's a spreading joy thing. Everyone could do that if they tried. Personally, if I could, I'd do it 365 days a year, because seeing people's attitudes change is really great, is really special."
Then the threads are back on -- he can get ready in seven minutes flat -- and it's into Shady Grove for a sit-down dinner with the employees of Kestrel Printing. More cameras, more wishes, and more than one waiter exhaling, "It is Santa!"
When dinner's barely finished, he's off again, with a "Ho-ho-ho!" that inevitably turns the startled heads of passersby. Destination: the Doubletree Hotel for the Children's Cardiology office party.
Here kids rule, ringed around Santa's chair, next to a fragrant blue spruce. "He's so good with the kids, both big and little," says Susan Diamond, the office administrator, also in charge of the office's annual Santa bookings. "We've had plenty of kids go home and say, 'Santa is real!' I think we've prolonged the whole thing a few years for some families."
He spends a few minutes explaining to one boy wearing a cast on his foot that Santa broke his foot, too, last year, when Blitzen stepped on it.
"This is my longest-running gig for Santa, and it gets bigger and more every year," he sighs. "It's funny because I recognize the kids I'm going to see when I get there. I'll even remember some of the gifts they got last year."
By midevening, Santa's had hundreds of people on his lap and hundreds of pictures taken, and amazingly he's still fresh and only a bit tired.
He doesn't even suffer from Tired Lap Syndrome, he says, because of "special arches" and a "spring system" in his boots.
Christmas Morning
Business is booming in Santaland, says Allen Danziger, proprietor of Three-Ring-Service, an "all purpose" Austin entertainment company. Danziger's 20-year-old company books Santa gigs for between eight and 10 Santas every season. He books about half of Cudd's appearances. So far, he's booked 200 jobs for his Santa fleet this season. "At the pace we're going, who knows what we'll end up with," he muses. While Danziger's casino parties, singing telegrams, magicians, and jugglers -- among other things -- are more lucrative than Santa gigs, he admits he wouldn't be in it "if it weren't profitable." But it's also a competitive world where the jolly guys are culled from among the masses.
"You can't just pull someone off the street and stick a Santa costume on them," says Danziger. "Like at the malls. Now they pull kids off the street and stick a beard on them; it's pathetic." His Santas have panache, he says. Cudd says the competition isn't all that tough.
"I'll just toot my own horn," boasts Cudd. "But [it's not tough] when you are the Santa Claus." Just the same, Cudd says he knows one guy who makes nearly $60,000 a season on his Santa, a large part of it coming from the lucrative holiday advertising market. But Cudd isn't really in it for the money. "No, he really thinks he is Santa Claus," says GSD&M pal Rix Sifuentez. So much so, it seems that Santa/ Cudd admits he enters into therapy every January. "I go through Santa withdrawal," he says. "I go from being the most popular man on the face of the earth -- people stop me in my tracks in the streets just to say hello -- then I'm just me. But that's okay, I like me too. Then I can start cooking chili again."
But then again, Christmas is always just around the corner, isn't it? 
